On Repeat
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Ambrose is looking for any reason, any reason at all, to spend time with DG. But his excuses are getting a little thin. DG/Ambrose, somewhat onesided, and mentions of DG/Cain. Post-miniseries. One shot.


**A/N: This one's for Nite, in honor of her Glitch/DG love.**

**On Repeat**

"There's a curse on the kitchen," says Ambrose, and as he says it he means it with all his heart. Never mind that it sounds a little silly, once it's out of his mouth. Words are like butterflies, very fast ones, and once let loose they're well nigh impossible to catch hold of again. So there, so he's said it. So what?

DG, however, does not seem inclined to take this at face value. Her face stills, her eyes widen, and she says, "I beg your pardon?" in that damped-down, tucked-edge voice that speaks of motorized bicycles and world-weariness. A note of falseness, for Ambrose knows— at least, he's convinced— that this princess is anything but weary of the world. She springs from her bed each morn, he is sure of it, like a Bichon Frise frisking after a grasshopper.

"A curse," he repeats, twitching a little. "On the kitchen. Someone's put a curse on the kitchen."

She folds her arms. "What kind of curse, Ambrose?"

It is his responsibility to make this as dramatic as possible; so he steps closer to her, spreads his fingers and dazzles her with his jazz hands.

"The freezer," he says, "is defrosting— and the fridge is freezing."

DG opens her mouth a little; she's about so say _Huh_, he recognizes that look, it always precedes a deliberate, slightly befuddled _Huh_. He hurries on.

"The fire keeps going out, the ice cream scoop is missing, the cook dropped an entire tray of custards, and I can't get the third drawer on the left open."

"Huh," says DG. Ambrose winces a little. "Third drawer, huh?"

"On the left," he clarifies, in case she missed that, and mimes it for her. Then he places his hands together almost piously and waits for verdict, eyes lowered humbly, virtuously.

"It's a kitchen, Ambrose," says his princess, and she's starting to smile a little now; he can hear it in her voice, which warms noticeably. Her wide blue eyes are fond as she watches her advisor, who slumps ever so slightly as she puts his fears to rest. "I used to work in a kitchen, you know? These things happen. A whole tray of custards?"

Ambrose lifts his hands a little. "That may have been my fault. I saw a bug. I— yelped."

"You yelped?"

"It was a very big bug," he assures her, earnestly. "Cook agreed with me, I reacted as any red-blooded man would have."

"I see." DG strokes briefly at the cold marble of her throne, running her fingers along the arm. "So this curse. Is it anything like the curse on the weather last week?"

"An eight o'clock sunset is relatively rare for this time of year, my lady—"

"What about the curse on the upstairs bathroom?"

"I did _not_ put that stopper in, and I most definitely _did_ turn off the taps."

"I see. And the mortal threat to the guard towers?"

"Evil spirits, my lady," Ambrose contests. "And Cain was cheating."

"Cain never cheats," DG says, a bit quietly, and Ambrose looks up at her now. Ah, there's the rub. The Bichon Frise has gone back to bed, and the aging poodle is out for her walk. Ambrose blinks; he's not sure what he means by this thought. But something, undoubtedly, definitely something. There must be_ some_ word for the way DG quiets down when she thinks of the myriad virtues of the Captain of the Guard, and how their unspoken, unrivaled love affair is passing them by, slowly but surely. DG thinks no one notices, but _he_ notices. Ambrose notices, and heartpangs are but one of the many glitches in his soul at this point. If it weren't for— well, if it weren't for Cain, how different things would be! Or might possibly be. Or maybe. Or, well, who knows?

If wishes were fishes, horses would beg.

Or something.

"Yet somehow he always ends up with the ace," Ambrose points out, hopelessly. DG somehow recalls herself from wherever it is she's been, and grants him a warm smile that makes him stand up straighter.

"Curses and poxes and evil spirits," she says. "You know you don't _have_ to have a problem to come and see me, Ambrose. You're one of my closest and most trusted friends, and I love to spend time with you." She hops down off the throne, nearly landing on his feet, and hugs him briefly to her. "Don't be a stranger. At least—" She lets him go, and laughs, looking him over. "Don't be any stranger than you can help." And she's off, then, moving away to the next appointment, the next crisis. Being a princess ain't all it's cracked up to be, these days.

"I love spending time with you, too, DG," says Ambrose quietly, and as he says it he means it with all his heart. Never mind that it sounds a little silly, once it's out of his mouth. Words are like butterflies, very fast ones, and once let loose—

Wait. Wait. He's had that thought before.

He twitches, glitches, admits it. It is nonetheless true for being silently spoken when her back is turned.

He will put his love on repeat.

She turns back, and slows her steps, and he realizes suddenly that she's waiting on him. Waiting for him to catch up. He moves so quickly he stumbles over his feet, and rushes headfirst to her side, where she catches him with her arm through his, elbows crooked, strides haphazard but matching.

_DG. I love spending time with you, too, DG._

_DG, I love you, DG._


End file.
